


I DREAMT OF A WHEAT FIELD.

by FUZZY_BOOFHEAD



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ACE ROADHOG, BLOOD ‘N’ GORE, CHARACTER DEATH (HYPOTHETICAL), CHRONIC PAIN + MENTAL ILLNESS, DECAY/ROT, DISGUSTING DESCRIPTIONS (I’M SORRY), EXISTENTIALISM (?), NON-BINARY ROADHOG, ROTTING/DECAY, SELF-HARMING (MENTIONED BRIEFLY), UNHEALTHY WAYS OF COPING, UPSETTING IMPLICATIONS, UPSETTING/POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FUZZY_BOOFHEAD/pseuds/FUZZY_BOOFHEAD
Summary: Literally just some rubbish I’ve been writing for a group RP I’m in at the moment—most of these are going to be written IC I think, and are usually either just a bit of creative writing or a response to a QOTD, it’s fun to do little character explorations like this for my take on Roadie.I’m Lemon, by the way !! 👋🏽✨ This is my first time posting anything seriously on here, fjfnd,,, I might start writing more of these, if I feel up to it. Thanks for giving me a listen!!
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. BUILT OF THE VEINS, AND THE FLESH AND THE BONES...

**Author's Note:**

> Literally just some rubbish I’ve been writing for a group RP I’m in at the moment—most of these are going to be written IC I think, and are usually either just a bit of creative writing or a response to a QOTD, it’s fun to do little character explorations like this for my take on Roadie.
> 
> I’m Lemon, by the way !! 👋🏽✨ This is my first time posting anything seriously on here, fjfnd,,, I might start writing more of these, if I feel up to it. Thanks for giving me a listen!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to the place from where we were all created.

**[ QOTD: DESCRIBE YOUR CHARACTER’S DEATH. ] **

going through life, I suppose I’d made it a kind of end goal of mine to go out as noisily as I could manage.

we _all_ have things we aspire to in life, and in death. no one wants to be forgotten, lost to time an’ swallowed up by the soil—though it is the place from where we were all created, in the beginning. I always pictured that it’d be in the soil where I finally found my way home, too. or maybe I’d just _hoped_ for it. 

_ wishful thinking’s all we got left in the end. _

...it’s honestly pretty hard for me to picture myself going on for much longer than I have already. was a surprise that I’ve even made it _this_ far, with how life can be out here in the Wasteland. I’ve always been big, an’ I’ve always been strong...but after a lifetime of fighting and fleeing and pain and suffering, I’d be a lot easier to catch in the end. I reckon that’s just the way it goes.

it’ll be the law that gets me, I’m sure. bounty hunters would’ve lost interest years an’ years ago. price isn’t enough for the trouble, I’m not worth all the hard yakka without Jamie there too—there’s no chance he’d still be standing by my side in those final moments, I’m sure of that too.  he’d have packed his things and wandered off by then, or I’d have pushed him away myself...always been good at doing that. 

logically, I can see how it’ll hurt for me to be alone when I die. but I’ll be grateful he isn’t there with me for it, and I hope he’ll be grateful for it too. I don’t want him to see what’s left of me when I’m gone. I’ll be better off on my own, weak and wounded but still _fighting_ ; standing amongst an ocean of broken, bloodied bodies, with my hook by my side and my head held high. I’d have given them a good scrapping, of course. I always did. I’d never allow myself to go out quietly. and I don’t think Jamie would be able to forgive me if I did, either. 

...if I’d like to be _properly_ sentimental about it all, I could fantasise about making it out more-or-less okay in the end. imagine I’d fought off all the cops an’ limped away to tend to my injuries in peace. I know better than to put any faith into something like _that_ happening, though—with all their high-tech tools an’ their guns, they’d shoot me down before I could even stop to wonder if it had even been worth it at all. gun me down without a single droplet of compassion or understanding. like when dad shot the mangy fox that had been moving around the old farm at night, making a mess of the coop and slaughtering the hens. a living creature who just needed to fill his empty stomach. 

I’ve never been one to sympathise with cops (how could you?), but I suppose they’d only just be doing _their_ job, too. I’ve done so many terrible things in my life. no point lyin’ to myself and saying I’m not dangerous, not violent...I deserve to be punished for all my crimes, whether I like it or not. maybe I would be able to forgive them in the moment, or maybe I wouldn’t. there’s no way of knowing until it actually happens, I suppose. 

it’s a stupid, unreasonable thought, but in my head, I imagine myself getting away _just_ long enough to where I can lay down in the dirt an’ stretch out with my arms tucked behind my neck. supporting my heavy head, like I’m settling down for one last, warm afternoon nap. pouring blood an’ struggling to breathe right through a set of lungs, so scratched an’ scarred from a lifetime of radiation damage and stress, bubbling with phlegm and blood and all those other disgusting bodily fluids that make up a person.

...I wonder what colour they’ll be, when they crack open my chest and empty me out to determine my exact cause of death for the papers. I can only _imagine_ the state of my organs, of my bones. they’ll make a joke of my size, of my body, of my death...but that’s okay. I never expected otherwise from this world, from these people. just hope they’ll have the decency to leave me with my mask on. my face isn’t for them to see, even in death.

I’d look up at the sky as I died, I think. hopin’ it’d be a sunset, or a pretty, cloudless afternoon. a wash of vibrant colour to slip away to the sight of. my eyelids would grow heavy, I’d cough up spittle and bile. rainbow patterns would fizzle and pop in the blackness behind my lids, the sun would feel warm against my skin. comforting me as I drifted away...

...an’ then that’d be that, right? I’d be gone. truly, properly _gone._ an’ they’d find me there in the dirt, all bloody and broken, with no one to hold my hand and cry and whisper kind words to me as I disappeared. alone and hurting in the end. a final taste of my own medicine, for all the wreckage I’ve caused in my life. _serves me right._ but at least they couldn’t ever say I went down without a struggle. 

it’d be nice if they could just leave me there to sink into the soil for good...but even if they took my body with them, to examine and poke an’ prod at and make a joke of, some little bits and pieces of me would remain in the dirt. that’s all I want.

we’re all just material in the end, there’s no use in tip-toeing around the subject. just food for the ground an’ history for the future generations to dig up. blood seeps into the dirt, clotting thickly in the earth. flesh breaks apart and decays under the sun, sweat-soaked skin and yellow fat and torn tissue. brittle bones get pushed deeper an’ deeper into the ground by the passage of time, left there to be discovered, one day, by whoever comes along the next time around. centuries and centuries away after we’re all long gone. no one to remember us for who we were as people. just bits of bone and artifacts to give ‘em a clue of what we were, of what we did.

I wonder what’ll grow in the patch where I died. flowers, grass, weeds, crops? maybe even nothing at all. maybe flesh and blood aren’t good for the dirt, and my broken body will have gone to waste. maybe I’ll just be a banquet for the maggots, or a dingo and his pups. the earth will find _some_ use for me, I’m sure. 

I wonder what my face will look like when I’m gone. if I’ll be smiling, or scowling, or gritting my teeth together like I’m still in pain. all I’ve ever _known_ in this life is pain, after all. maybe I’ll be looking serene in death. maybe I’ll be glad to get away from it all. maybe I’ll finally be able to relax. 

I wonder if anyone will weep for me when I’m gone. I wonder if Jamie will hear about what happened to me—wonder if he’ll cry about it, or say “good riddance” and go about his day as normal. I wonder if he’ll be all alone then, too. I wonder if he’ll be okay without me. I wonder if I’ll be okay without _him._

I wonder if there’s anything else out there, beyond this world that we know, this existence we’ve found ourselves so comfortably a part of. I wonder what exists beyond our consciousness, where we were before we were born and where we’ll go when we’ve died. floating endlessly in a void, suspended in a haze of memories of when we were alive, or maybe doomed to walk the earth as a spirit.

maybe it’s just nothing at all...maybe it’s just darkness. maybe we’re just gone for good, and none of it was even worth it in the end. I wonder if I’ll get a second chance, at a life I won’t fuck up. I wonder if I’ll just end up making the same mistakes again.

...I wonder if any of it even really _matters._

because in the end, we don’t get much of a say when it comes to what’ll happen to us. 

all I can do is keep on living for the time being. keep on fighting, keep on surviving. keep on keeping Jamie safe, so he doesn’t have to meet the same fate that I’ve set out for myself. even if he stays by me, I won’t let him go down with me, too. I’ll push him away, offer myself up in his place, do whatever I have to do to make sure it’s _me_ getting torn open and apart and halfway across the desert with shrapnel and smoke, and not him. 

there’s no sense in trying to ignore the inevitable. I’ve had a good run, I’ll be happy to go however I go...I’ll just need to come to terms with saying goodbye to this body of mine. imperfect as it might be, it’s the only one I’ve ever known. I hope it’ll become useful to someone else after me. to the soil, to the future, to Jamie...

I just hope that when I finally get to the end, I’ll be able to go without too much fuss an’ without too many regrets. 

_to the place from where we were all created._


	2. TE HARORE O OKU KIKOKIKO.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> making a mess of my skin, to match the mess of myself I’ve made within.

my brain is foggy with the stink of _Tiger Balm;_ not for the first time in my life, an’ certainly not for the last.

it’s a smell that’s simultaneously nostalgic and overly familiar, all at once. a scent that lingers. burning in my sinuses and leaving me dry-mouthed and nauseous long after the aches have been soothed and the jar’s been put away. menthol and camphor, freezing hot and boiling cold as it stings against my flesh. a temporary fix for the aches that plague this neglected, broken body of mine.

...even without the strain that comes from all these days of running, scrapping, protecting Jamie and fighting to survive out here, my body is damaged goods. old and ugly and weakening by the day.

my pain is chronic, pulsating, all-encompassing. joints creaking, head throbbing, muscles tight and burning for seemingly no reason at all. just to spite me. _my own body is out to get me._ some days, I can’t even tell where the pain stops and where I start. I’d be hurting even lying around an’ doing nothing. I can do my best to ignore it, to take my medication and sip my Hogdrogen an’ pretend it’s not out there, hiding around the corner to come and get me...but it is. I know _that_ better than I know my own skin.

...I can’t help but remember the days of my youth, in times like these. bloody knuckles an’ busted lips, a bruised back littered with blooming, floral patterns in red, yellow and purple. _Strelitzia._ the bird of paradise. but there’s no paradise or blooming colour to be found here. just me, hunched-over and nauseous, waiting for the Tiger Balm to kick in as I dig the blunt, chipped black nails of my right hand into the torn, reddened skin of my calf. seeking out a fresh patch of scabs to disrupt...to **harvest.**

I need a distraction from the pain. no one ever said you couldn’t distract yourself from pain with _more_ pain. no one ever taught me how to deal with this at all. 

the scabs here are newer, easier to pick through; crusted over with a thin, fine coat of pink-white skin. almost delicate, like the lace my mum used to make. red around the edges, the darkest splotch of it in the very centre, where the scab was only _just_ starting to heal. 

pinching my index finger and thumb together, I take hold of the edge of the oldest scab, digging the underside of my undoubtedly dirty nail (idiot. idiot. idiot.) in and under it, prying it up from my calf in slow, small increments—ripping it off like a band-aid will _hurt,_ of course. but it’s better if you do it slowly.

...the sting will start then; harsh enough to distract me from the pain, but weak enough to convince myself that I have control over my own body again. if you do it properly, the scab will come off all in one piece. a flattened, crumpled little piece of blood and dead skin an’ all those other little things that help the healing process along. _platelets,_ I remember from my veterinary course. how long ago was that, now?

with the scab picked off, the little wound opens back up again to the stale air. glistening with fluid, the skin around it burning dully as a small rivulet of blood begins to drip down from the tiny hole. dragging a long, slow trail of red through the hair on my calf, pooling together in the dip of my bare ankle.

even with this tiny amount, I can smell the copper from here. my blood reeks of it now. _I wonder, has my nose gotten more sensitive to the smell...or has the stink of my blood changed with time?_

...one measly little spot of pain isn’t enough to tide me over for long. once I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop myself. rolling the scab into a little reddish-brown ball between my bloody fingers, I pick out another spot, then another, then another again. I keep going until every single scab on both legs is open again, all the little rivers of blood dripping to form puddles under my trembling feet. there’s _so much_ of it, so much blood and so many little spots. my fingers are coated in it. my leg hair’s stuck down flat with it. I feel a bit sick in the guts looking at it. 

after I’m done with this, I’ll take a bit of cloth and some watered-down hand sanitiser. I’ll scrub it all over both legs, fronts and backs, to keep the scabs clean and to punish myself for opening them all back up again. some of them are months-old, at this point. I tell myself I’ll leave ‘em alone...but I know I’ll just end up letting them scab back over, then pick them back off all over again.

I’m embarrassed in myself for doing it. of course I am. it’s the sort of thing you’d scold a kid for doing—picking at their skin ‘til ugly little scars mottle their legs. my skin’s _already_ ruined, though. it used to be a blank, clean canvas...but years of carelessness and mistreatment has left it splattered and ugly. all scars and moles and blemishes and radiation burns, swirls of red-brown all across my flesh. 

_damaged goods._

when I press the pad of my thumb to the centre of my tongue, smearing blood across the gold ball of my piercing, I can taste all the stupid things I’ve just done. copper and hand sanitiser. the sweat of my skin, the Tiger Balm. you’re _supposed_ to apply it with gloves on...but I never tried it.

how many hours had I spent back then, belly pressed to my mother’s handmade quilt, as she fretted over my aches and pains? she wore gloves when she rubbed the medication into my skin, chastised me for picking at my wrists again, then sent me to bed with a kiss on the forehead. apologising for the pain, for the ugliness. like it was _her_ fault, somehow. 

...how many hours will I continue to spend, flesh simmering and seething with the creeping, all-encompassing burn of pain, then relief, then pain again?

how many years will I continue to spend, making a mess of my legs, of my arms, of the insides of my thighs? picking myself bloody and torn, opening up new cuts to scab over when there aren’t enough. the more time I spend on them, the more I need to feel anything at all. there are spots of my legs that are so scabbed-over and scarred, I can hardly tell what the skin under it used to look like. back when I was _clean._ back when I was more than just a human pain receptor. 

at some point, I’d stopped being a person altogether, I suppose. the human body can only endure so much distress before it breaks down completely. my whole life, I’ve felt pain. 

it feels good for a little while. to be the one _inflicting_ the pain, not just the one gritting their teeth and dealing with it. but it’s made me ugly. uglier than I was before. ugly in a way that I’ll never be able to come back from. mottled legs and blood under my nails...

_ pain’s just the way you know that you’re still alive. _

...I only wish that it would hurt a little less.


End file.
